“I know nothing about the ‘Varsity.”
Rickie winced at the abbreviation “‘Varsity.” It was at that time the proper thing to speak of “the University.”
“I haven’t the time,” pursued Mr. Dawes.
“No, no,” said Rickie politely.
“I had the chance of being an Undergrad, myself, and, by Jove, I’m thankful I didn’t!”
“Why?” asked Agnes, for there was a pause.
“Puts you back in your profession. Men who go there first, before the Army, start hopelessly behind. The same with the Stock Exchange or Painting. I know men in both, and they’ve never caught up the time they lost in the ‘Varsity—unless, of course, you turn parson.”
“I love Cambridge,” said she. “All those glorious buildings, and every one so happy and running in and out of each other’s rooms all day long.”
“That might make an Undergrad happy, but I beg leave to state it wouldn’t me. I haven’t four years to throw away for the sake of being called a ‘Varsity man and hobnobbing with Lords.”
Rickie was prepared to find his old schoolfellow ungrammatical and bumptious, but he was not prepared to find him peevish. Athletes, he believed, were simple, straightforward people, cruel and brutal if you like, but never petty. They knocked you down and hurt you, and then went on their way rejoicing. For this, Rickie thought, there is something to be said: he had escaped the sin of despising the physically strong—a sin against which the physically weak must guard. But here was Dawes returning again and again to the subject of the University, full of transparent jealousy and petty spite, nagging, nagging, nagging, like a maiden lady who has not been invited to a tea-party. Rickie wondered whether, after all, Ansell and the extremists might not be right, and bodily beauty and strength be signs of the soul’s damnation.